None of us really want to think about what would have happened, in the black community and elsewhere, if the victims of the Charleston massacre had been nine black people who’d had trouble with the law, instead of nine black people studying and worshipping in a historically black church. We don’t want to ask ourselves how the world and media, all the way from Black Twitter to CNN, would have reacted if, say, the victims of the massacre had been nine black trans women. What if they’d been nine black people at a bar? Or what if one of them had been a struggling black comedian who proudly ate a lot of fried chicken, and occasionally used cocaine (stay with me now)?

“Black respectability politics” is a phrase that gets thrown around so much, we forget how dangerous the concept really is—how much weight it carries at the various intersections of politics, entertainment and media. And it’s difficult to admit that the outpouring of thoughts and prayers and emotions from people of all races would have been different if we weren’t mourning the loss of a group of “respectable” black Americans. The “good” news, if there is any, is that the massacre proves (once again) that the black body is under attack in all spaces and under all circumstances. The bad news is that, not only do we have a long ways to go before black lives truly matter, but we have a ways to go before all black lives—“respectable” and otherwise—matter. Representation and visibility is key in this goal, and we have seen powerful strides and achievement in black representation on television. However, as we celebrate the rise of characters like "Scandal’s" Olivia Pope, "Being Mary Jane’s" Mary Jane Palmer and "Empire’s" Cookie Lyon, we should acknowledge that their popularity also highlights the types of characters we do not see in black women on TV. Charla Lauriston, who previously wrote for Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, and is now writing for the highly anticipated "Why? with Hannibal Burress" is working towards filling that gap with her web series "Clench & Release."

The protagonist of "Clench" (aptly named “Charla”) offers up something unique—the anti-strong black woman who shamelessly brings fried chicken to work and eats it in public, rocks a not-so-great weave, and goes on dates while high on cocaine. Granted, unlike the aforementioned dramas, Charla has been created in a comedy series for the web. She is, therefore, given more permission to be somewhat of a loser because much of the humor is derived from her epic fails. This also tells us that we might see more of the anti-strong black woman if we saw more black women in comedy series, where characters would be allowed to exist, like Charla, in a near-constant state of comedic crisis.

The emphasis on comedic is important, because we have black women in crisis in our entertainment. But Charla is not a character on "Orange is the New Black." She doesn’t have a haunting backstory, or a racist, classist institution to overcome. Her comedic moments aren’t coupled with the drama that we’ve see in Jenji Kohan’s tale—a necessary drama for a show set in prison, but also further proof that we have yet to be presented with black women characters who fail, or who are irresponsible, or badly behaved just because they are—because people of all races can be irresponsible and badly behaved. Such characterization is, apparently, another white privilege not yet bestowed upon the black community. For this reason, it’s refreshing and exciting to see a black woman dealing with drama that just isn’t all that serious.

One such crisis in Season One consists of Charla getting called out by a fellow black coworker for eating her delicious fried chicken in front of their white coworkers. In Season Two, another crisis begins with Charla doing some coke with a homeless fellow, and then going on what she hopes will be the greatest date of her life. It ends with a trip to the pharmacy for Plan B, because Charla is not a strong black woman who never does drugs and always takes her birth control. She’s a mess and it shows, hilariously so, in every short episode of the series.

In the Season Two finale, when Charla—to the horror of her onlooking twin sister (played by Ursula Lauriston)—takes a $5 bill out of her purse and deposits it into the ATM (so that she can withdraw the $20 minimum), it feels like a monumental moment for the anti-strong black woman. There’s something refreshingly normal and unapologetic in the presentation of this broke woman who—unlike many popular characters who look like her—doesn’t have it together. Charla, with her New York City backdrop, bad dates and casual drug use, would be more at home on "Broad City" than anywhere else. And although the series will undoubtedly be compared to Issa Rae’s "Awkward Black Girl," Lauriston made it a point to veer away from a focus on romantic troubles in creating this narrative. Indeed, there are plenty of awkward moments (there’s a great moment in Season Two’s “Plan B” episode where a pharmacist shouts over the loud speaker that Charla needs help looking for the pill “over by the sex stuff”), but the character is not especially awkward, or an introvert. Charla just has some loser-ish tendencies that make her fun to watch, especially if you can identify with struggles like having an older sibling who somehow manages to be better at you in all things, or doing what you love, but suffering financially for it. Beyond the entertainment factor, the comedic scenarios (all based on Lauriston’s stand-up routines, which are interspersed throughout) humanize Charla, making her far more identifiable for the average black girl who’s not rocking Prada purses, or fur coats, or even a pair of scrubs—all of which signify a certain amount of privilege.

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Earlier this year, Earl Sweatshirt dropped an album titled "I Don’t Like Shit, I Don’t Go Outside: An Album by Earl Sweatshirt." It comes to mind because of the incredible subversive quality in the title alone. The artist expresses the exact opposite sentiment that has now become associated with his genre—no money, hoes or clothes; no Gucci or Louis; no ballin’ or parking lot pimpin’. Instead, the title appropriately reflects a certain self-effacing style unique to him and the Odd Future crew. In a culture partly defined by braggodocious rap lyrics, a self-professed loser-type is incredibly subversive. The same is true for an entertainment industry that has come to equate “black woman” with “strong black woman” or “independent black woman.” Charla Lauriston’s "Clench & Release" might have alternatively been titled "I Don’t Like Prada Suits, I Don’t Have Any Meme Quotables, I’m Not Caught In A Love Triangle." It’s not as catchy, but it would have more directly stated the ways in which this character stands apart from many others.

Obviously, it helps that this is a web series and that Charla Lauriston had complete agency and control over the creative process. And, sure, one could argue that we should all start looking to web series for unique and exciting characters like Charla. But I can’t help but imagine the impact Charla—as she is, and unwatered down—would have on a network show. It’d be a mark of progress if audiences, particularly black audiences, could embrace a representative of the anti-strong black woman—a protagonist that is, as Lauriston herself describes her, “just a person, and not necessarily an angel or a hero.”

In a recent essay, Shadow & Act writer Tanya Steele proudly declared that she does not forgive America for the deaths of the Charleston nine, among other atrocities, including those found in media and entertainment:

I do not forgive you for an entertainment industry that continues to relay an outdated narrative about Black America and champions a lopsided narrative of this nation.

It may seem strange to bring in a discussion about "Clench & Release," a truly light-hearted series, when there are more black lives to mourn. But Charla Lauriston’s creation is one of those characters that would help balance that lopsided narrative Steele speaks of. If that narrative scale is, indeed, less concerned with respectability and more concerned with diversity as normalcy—diversity as a reflection of what is normal for a black character (which should be, actually, absolutely anything), then let’s hope "Clench" is just the beginning for Lauriston. Balancing that scale is just one of many, many ways to create visibility for all black lives. The significance of balancing that scale is the reason Ava DuVernay launches campaigns for her production company AFFRM; it’s the reason this very blog exists, and it’s the reason I’m championing this web series and won’t stop talking about it until I see more weird and subversively messy (not Real Housewives, messy) black women characters everywhere.

Imagine if you will a table with Olivia Pope at the head. Cookie Lyon, Anika “Ms. Boo Boo Kitty” Calhoun, Mary Jane Palmer, Tasha St. Claire, Dr. Miranda Bailey, Rainbow Johnson, Annaliese Keating and a few other familiar faces take up the remaining seats. It’d be a sight to behold—all of these beautiful, fierce, strong black women. But it wouldn’t tell the whole story. Imagine if room was made for a character like Charla. And then imagine the space that someone like Charla would create for other, more different and more strange, and not necessarily weak or strong, but unbelievably entertaining and thrillingly human (not superhuman) black women. That would be empowering and that would be diversity at its best, because it would work as one more reminder that black lives and experiences are human lives and experiences. We are, unfortunately, living in a time where many people do not make that connection. But who’s to say that one small web series and one incredible comedy writer can’t change that?

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Shannon M. Houston is Assistant TV Editor & a film critic at Paste Magazine, and a writer for Pink is the New Blog and Heart&Soul. This New York-based freelancer probably has more babies than you, but that’s okay; you can still be friends. She welcomes almost all follows on Twitter: https://twitter.com/shannonmhouston.